


silence keeps you

by la_victorienne



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-15
Updated: 2009-01-15
Packaged: 2018-10-16 00:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: trapped in a cabin in the middle of wales in winter. it might surprise you what jack and ianto do.





	

[Fancy a Winter break in Wales? There is nothing quite like relaxing in front of a blazing log fire in a cosy cottage, warming up after a long winter walk or maybe a day playing in the snow. The winter months (December, January, February) are our coldest months. The days are short and temperatures are in the region of 0°C to 8°C. A few days of snow are even a possibility.](http://www.welshholidaycottages.com/weather/winter-in-wales.htm)

Barely awake, Ianto pushes his nose into the warm skin beside it, snuffling a happy laugh when Jack yelps.

“Hey, your nose is cold!” he complains, and Ianto just shakes his head, rubbing the icy cartilage against Jack’s shoulder again.

“I know,” he mumbles, “and your shoulder is warm.” Jack smiles and lifts his arm over Ianto’s head, drawing him closer and settling gently under the comforter.

“Well, if that’s the case,” he murmurs, and he hears Ianto sigh with the contentment of the half-awakened.

They lie in silence for a while, Jack staring at the still ceiling fan and Ianto’s dozing breath whuff-whuffing against his chest in a comforting, almost ticklish way. It’s the first time in a long time Jack has been able to stare into nothingness in utter relaxation, with no worries and no regrets, and he relishes the time he’s spending here, in this solitary place. Ianto is warm against him and Jack’s heart is impossibly full.

True, that losing Tosh and Owen dealt a blow more tender than he could ever imagine; true, that Gray’s all-too comprehensible revenge brought him unmentionable grief and guilt; true, that he has to rebuild a team as well as his own memory. But something about this house in the middle of nowhere, warm under the blankets even as the snow piles up around them, brings him peace, and surety. Here, in this lonely brown cabin on a high white hill, he can count the freckles on Ianto’s elbows or venture bravely forth wrapped in a blanket to make passable tea and thickly buttered toast; he can memorise the contours of Ianto’s ears or build up the fire and feed him soup out of the enormous chipped mugs in the cupboards. It’s a freedom he rarely feels, to be trapped by the weather with only his lover for company, and the solitude affords him all the time to appreciate that which he has not yet lost.

Ianto stirs against him, still not quite returned to slumber yet not nearly awake enough for what Jack has planned, and his slender hand clutches a little harder at Jack’s hip. Jack smiles indulgently down at him, at his sometimes appallingly boyish face and slightly furrowed brow, and smoothes one tanned hand over Ianto’s dark, finely curling hair before kissing his head in a manner neither wholly affectionate nor erotic, his sometimes confused feelings of both mentor and lover mingling perfectly for the occasion. Ianto’s eyes flutter open and he registers Jack’s jaw, kissing the bend in his own wordless response. He whuffles again into Jack’s chest, groaning happily. It’s as if he, too, has lost all care in this unexpected winter abandonment; as if he, too, has forgotten that worry exists in the world. Their entire universe has narrowed to the places where skin is touching skin, and neither the whistling snowstorm nor the creaking of the house can intrude on their isolation.

Jack passes a hand over Ianto’s jaw and draws him up for a real kiss, morning breath and all. Ianto’s nose is much warmer now, but Jack’s is not, and he can feel Ianto smile against his mouth accordingly. Ianto moves up; Jack moves down; until their bodies align suitably and the covers can be thrown over their heads, both burrowing underneath like children in a blanket fort. They kiss, and touch, and explore, but there is none of the usual urgency in their hands, a product of Torchwood’s “busy schedule.” Instead, they are relearning each other in this place of wholeness, where the white blanket covers everything objectionable, makes the entire landscape bright and new. Every discovery on Ianto’s body seems utterly novel to Jack, who remembers only the basics of their previous couplings; Jack’s brilliance almost blinds Ianto, its radiance undimmed by schedules or crises. The lazy lovemaking sends them into even more potent oblivion, and as they settle against each other once again it is Jack who falls endearingly and innocently to sleep, and Ianto who guards him with fierce tenderness. It seems all the more clear, after this beautiful morning, that only death can part them now.


End file.
